FADE IN: INT./EXT. HIGHWAY 20, WESTBOUND, OREGON CASCADES, DUSK Rain. The kind that has been going for hours and will keep going. Wipers at full speed and still not enough. The highway cuts through stands of Douglas fir that disappear into low cloud. CALLUM RIDGE (34) drives alone. Unremarkable in the way that people are unremarkable when they have decided not to claim space. Dry face, careful eyes, a posture that suggests he spends most of his time at a desk and is fine with that. His hands are precise on the wheel, the kind of hands trained to hold fragile things. A talk radio program plays at low volume. He is not listening. On the passenger seat: a manila envelope, a phone in a charging cradle, and a travel mug that stopped being warm an hour ago. He reaches over without looking and picks up the envelope. Reads the name in the upper corner. MAREN RIDGE, ESTATE OF. He sets it back down. He says the name aloud, quietly, to confirm he has it. CALLUM Maren Ridge. The wipers move. The highway narrows. The firs close in. EXT. HERON, MAIN STREET, DUSK The town arrives without warning. One moment it is forest and then there is a gas station, a post office painted blue, a feed supply store with lights still on. The main street is four blocks long and tidy in the way of towns that have not given up. 1